Pyjamarama

Pyjamas. Despite its close association with the bedroom, it’s possibly the least sexy word we have, holding off stiff competition from the likes of ‘varicose’, ‘bowel’ and the evergreen ‘mucus’. Pyjamas. Say it a few times and it starts to irritate, like verbal itching powder. ‘Pyjamas’ are what old men wear in hospital. They may be something more comfortable, but they’re hardly something you’d want to slip into, at least not within eyeshot of a woman. ‘Keep her lit, I’ll be back in a minute – wait’ll you see my pyjamas!’ It just doesn’t work. The faceless barons of the pyjama industry recognised all this some years back and, like all good faceless barons, set about the process of modernisation. Deciding that it was too late to do anything about the word, they concentrated on the product itself. After considering a variety of alternatives (‘How about if we add a hat?’), they settled on what has come to be known, by me at least, as the kung-fu option. Gone are the days of the stripy flannel suit. Modern male nightwear is a pair of spacious, whisper-light bottoms (or whatever they’re called) and a t-shirt. The t-shirt part is unremarkable enough, but the bottoms are straight out of Enter the Dragon. How you’re supposed to sleep in them, I don’t know. The temptation is just too strong. If I had five cents for every time I’ve climbed into mine and ended up pulling a muscle while trying to kick an overhead light, I would have fifteen cents. But that’s beside the point. They’re still called pyjamas and it’s still all wrong. Pyjamas. Pyjamas. Pyjamas. Great. Now I’ve given myself a headache.